


The further adventures of Betsy the Beagle

by Zauzat



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-27
Updated: 2011-03-27
Packaged: 2017-10-21 14:30:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/226235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zauzat/pseuds/Zauzat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So what did happen to Archer's beagle? And why is no one on the Enterprise at their posts?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The further adventures of Betsy the Beagle

**Author's Note:**

  * For [emiliglia](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=emiliglia).



_So the official book of Startrek Reboot ends by telling us:_

> No one was in the transporter room when it unexpectedly and fleetingly energized. The figure that emerged on the pad closest to the rest of the chamber did not hesitate, but made straight for the nearest open portal. The blip engendered by its appearance was too transitory and insufficient to alert security. It did not matter, because the unexpected arrival’s appearance on board caused only consternation and not alarm.
> 
> For the life of them, as it sped outsystem and entered warp space, no one on the Enterprise could figure out where the beagle with the very peculiar ears had come from.

  
_Clearly inquiring minds need to know what the beagle did next. This is the answer to that question..._

The beagle jumped down from the transporter pad and trotted off through the open portal. She had been on starships often enough to know how they worked. She was feeling a little disorientated. Something strange had been happening recently, although she couldn’t quite remember what. She had an odd feeling of having been lost for quite a while, although she wasn’t quite sure where.

But still, she was now back and all appeared to be in working order. Her legs trotted with their customary fluency, her tail waved high and proud behind her. Her long soft ears brought to her the usual sounds of a working starship, and the way the sound echoed told her it was a large craft. Her sense of smell seemed to be as sharp as ever. It informed her that this was a Federation ship, and that it was a new one.

Presumably Archer was around here somewhere. But until he turned up, she would do a little exploring, perhaps find the canteen. It felt as if she hadn’t eaten for quite a while. It was neither a sensation that she was used to, nor one that she particularly liked. Archer had been very good at providing regular meals, and snacks in-between.

As she padded down the corridor, she heard a surprised shout. “Oi, ye wee mutt, where have ye been? Caused me a world of trouble, ye have. I knew ye’d reappear one day!”

The beagle might not have a clear recall of what had gone wrong in the past while but she had a powerful scent memory to go with it – a memory of whiskey fumes mixed with engineering oil – and this man reeked of it. She took off at a run, dodging expertly down one corridor and up another until the shouting had faded into the distance.

Once sure she has lost the unwelcome presence she took stock of her surroundings. She was somewhere in the middle depths of the ship. Downwards would take her into redshirt territory and she has little interest in that. She was an Admiral’s dog, after all. Consorting with the non-commissioned ranks was beneath her. She decided that her best plan was to find the canteen and then work her way up to the bridge. She hadn’t caught scent of Archer yet, but that was where he was most likely to be.

Still, the sudden reappearance and the run had taken it out of her. She felt that a nap might be in order so that she’d be back to best when she finally found Archer again. Her nose led her swiftly to store room where a pile of Starfleet blankets made a cosy nest. She turned round neatly three times, tucked her nose in under her tail and went to sleep.

Some hours later, much refreshed, she followed her nose towards the mess. She knew from sad experience that the replicators and waste disposal units offered little of use to a dog, but this ship, like most of the bigger ones, also had a small galley. Here she hoped her large hazel eyes would work their usual magic and a bowl of scraps would be quickly forthcoming.

She hesitated when she once again caught the smell of whiskey and engineering oil. However, it was mixed in with the smell of pastrami and bacon, and her stomach was overruling her more cautious instincts. Very carefully she peered around the door of the kitchen. The engineer that she was less than fond of was leaning on the counter on his elbows, holding an enormous sandwich, a sandwich from which both pastrami and bacon was wantonly spilling. Betsy’s mouth was watering.

The engineer groaned. “Och aye, now _that’s_ good!” She wasn’t sure if he was referring to the sandwich which he was stuffing into his mouth, or the three fat fingers which the chef was stuffing up his naked ass, fingers liberally coated with extra-virgin olive oil. Betsy was more one for rare steak than olive oil but even she was reasonably sure it wasn’t meant to be used like that.

Betsy watched warily as the chef pulled out the fingers and replaced them with something larger and much more personal. “Such a slut for it, aren’t you Scotty,” muttered the chef. The engineer, now well stuffed at both ends, just moaned in response, eyes closed. Taking advantage of both men being very distracted, Betsy managed to pull all the cold cuts off the table that had been laid out for sandwich making, and made off with them down the corridor, letting the sound of her munching block out the obscene groans coming out of the kitchen.

With her stomach now satisfyingly full, it occurred to her to look in on sickbay. Back when Phil Boyce had been Archer’s CMO, he’d always had a drawer full of dog treats for her, treats that would be just the thing for dessert. The antiseptic smell soon guided her to the right place. It was all very new and shiny. Also very empty. She followed a scent emanating from the isolation chamber that she did associate with Archer at certain times, although in his case it came accompanied by women smelling of hairspray and cheap perfume. She discovered a buxom blonde nurse up on a biobed, skirt around her hips and a doctor on his knees, face buried in her crotch. “Geoff! Oh my god, that’s it, yes! Yes! Oooooh!” So rather like Archer then, although his knees had not been up to that for some years. But the dark-skinned doctor was not her Admiral or CMO Boyce so she left them to it and went in search of the bridge.

She stopped by the turbolift tower and pressed the button with her nose. One of the lifts started to move but the other seemed to be frozen, the malfunction warning light flashing. She sniffed curiously against the door. More of the same smell, but this time not all human. A human woman, a man who smelt Vulcan, although perhaps not entirely. The woman making high whimpering noises, swearing softly in a mixture of Standard and Vulcan. The man repeating a name over and over again. “Nyota.” A rhythmic thumping against the wall of the turbolift. Betsy got the idea. When the other lift arrived she hopped in and pushed the top-floor button with her nose, leaving the humanoids to their diversions.

As she approached the bridge she heard deep male voices coming from the ready room. She trotted up to the door but then stopped as she realized neither voice was her Admiral.

“Dammit Jim, you’re supposed to be driving this god-forsaken boat, not doing dubious things with your CMO in your ready room.”

“Sulu drives this boat, you know that. Now that take-off is complete, they can live without me for 10 minutes. Sign of a good leader and all that, knowing when to trust your subordinates, knowing when to delegate.” There was a pause for some heavy breathing, and possibly some minor moaning.

“You fucking get off on having ‘subordinates’, don’t you, you ego-maniacal monster?”

“Oh like you don’t get a thrill from being called CMO?” There was a rustling of fabric, the sound of a zip being opened. “God in heaven, Bones. We’re in charge of Starfleet’s flagship, you and me. Just four years ago we were the dregs of the 2255 cadet intake, and now look where we are!”

“Yeah, look where we are, in the deep and dangerous depths of the black, with Starfleet’s biggest ego and youngest Captain molesting his CMO instead of damned well driving!”

“Hmmm, but you’re such fun to molest, Bones. And I deserve a little celebration. Beside, things down here seem pretty interested whatever you may be saying.”

The familiar scents strengthened as the voices tailed off into breathy whispers and groans. Betsy was beginning to wonder who was actually at work in this vessel. Archer would never have approved of such goings-on. She decided to leave them to it and go and look around the bridge.

It was a large bridge, full of interesting new scents. It was also empty, except for the pilot and the navigator. At least someone was actually at their post. Except that the navigator wasn’t so much at his post as sat on the pilot’s lap, head tilted back, blond curls mixing with the pilot’s dark hair. His command shirt was pushed up to his armpits and his pants were down on his thighs. The pilot had one hand on the controls and the other wrapped round the navigator’s turgid cock. “That’s it baby, so beautiful Pasha. Come apart for me!” The navigator was babbling in Russian while squirming enthusiastically against the pilot’s groin.

Betsy sniffed in disapproval. Such things would never have been allowed had Archer been on board. Clearly someone needed to take charge until he returned. She was unsurprised to see the captain’s chair empty. She jumped up onto it, turned around three times, crossed her front paws neatly, one over the other, and settled in to wait.

She’d keep an eye on things until her Admiral arrived.

\- THE END -


End file.
